Pizza Feet
by EB91
Summary: Mark's dad forces seven-year-old Mark to join the hockey team at their local ice arena, despite Mark's lack of skating skills. Who's there to help him? Roger, of course! A "How Mark and Roger Met" story. One-Shot. Jonathan Larson owns everything.


**Hey everyone! I know it's been a while since I've posted anything, and I do want to apologize for it. Life has just gotten so hectic, especially since it's my senior year, and I haven't really had much time to write anything. I'm sorry. I do have one more fic I'm working on, but I just still need a bit more time to finish it. :)**

**Anywho, I came up with the idea for this story back in October before I got cut from my job. I was watching a father lace up his son's skates, and this just kind of... Came to me. Yay inspiration! Then, after I got cut, I didn't really want anything to do with the story. I started watching the Olympics, and alas, I got inspired to finally finish this. Woo!**

**So, I hope you enjoy this little one shot, and don't forget to click on that white and green button at the bottom of the page and leave a review, no matter how small or short. You guys always brighten my day. :)**

**-EB91**

**AN - All belongs to Jonathan Larson.**

* * *

"Do I have to?"

"Son, it's time you've learned."

"But I don't want to!" Mark whined, pounding his little fists on the rubber tiled floor of the Scarsdale Ice Arena. His dad sat on his knees, hunched over, concentrating on lacing up his son's hockey skates.

"Well, you're seven years old now. When I was your age I was racing against your uncles up and down the river!" His dad gave the side of his skate a light tap, indicating that he was done. Mark rolled his eyes and laid flat on his back, looking up at his now-standing father.

"But daaaaad!" I just want to watch! I don't want to race against Cindy." Mark covered his now-welling eyes with his hands, as if not being able to see his father would somehow make this situation disappear.

"Well, it's a good thing you're learning hockey and not speed skating, huh?" Mark's dad chuckled, grabbing Mark lightly and bringing him to his feet.

As soon as he let go, Mark wobbled, holding his hands out as if he were on a tight rope. Once he regained his balance he lifted one foot up to take a step. As he put his foot down, he wobbled furiously before falling to the ground.

"How am I going to learn hockey if I can't even skate, or even stand!" Mark whined loudly as his father helped him up again.

"You will son, you will." His father ushered him to the ice area where other kids Mark's age were standing, all geared up and ready to go.

"Have a good class, buddy. I'll be waiting out here." He pointed to the sitting area near the concession stand and vending machines. He patted his back, pushing him towards the other children waiting to take to the ice. Mark gulped, watching his father leave.

"Alright class!" A strong voice called out, grasping Mark's attention away from his father. Mark turned around and looked up at whom he assumed to be his new hockey coach. He gulped, taking in his appearance; he was a tall man with a large, bald head, deep eyes, and large, hunched shoulders. If Mark felt nervous before, he was absolutely petrified now.

"I am coach Michaelman. Today we're going to learn the basics of the game of ice hockey. If you're already familiar with the sport," He looked over to a few children on the right side of the group, each high-fiving each other and sharing toothy grins, "You'll be set. If you're new to the sport," He looked to the back of the group. Mark looked around, his slightly magnified eyes taking in the appearances of the children surrounding him. Like him, they wore thick glasses, mismatched clothing that were either too big, too small, or obviously old hand-me-downs from older siblings, and the same petrified looks on their faces. "We've got a long way to go. But!" He shouted, gaining back Mark's attention. "Before we begin, we'll warm up for a few minutes by skating around." He motioned towards the ice. Mark looked and gulped, feeling his heart race. It looked like a deathly white field of frigid ground.

"Go!" Coach Michaelman announced, opening the thick gate, letting the children pass by him. The Sporty kids to the right took off, running towards the ice, zooming and gliding smoothly in the center and around the rink. The Unsporty kids slowly made their way across, but to Mark's surprise, took to the ice like the latter of the children.

Mark stepped onto the ice, one foot first. Grasping the red-lined railing hard, he cautiously stepped his other foot on the ice and stood there, waiting to fall. When he didn't, he picked up his foot and began walking, pulling his weight along the wall, slowly making his way down the rink.

By the time he got half way around the rink, his face was flushed and he was huffing with exhaustion. Small beads of sweat rolled down the side of his face, tickling his neck and causing his blond hair to stick flatly. He didn't dare let go of the wall to wipe his forehead. Dragging his hand to grab more of the wall, he heard laughter. Briefly looking up, he saw one of the Sporty kids cruising straight toward him. Mark nervously started to try to skate backwards, afraid that the kid would crash into him. Before he could, Mark fell backwards, falling on his behind. The Sporty kid halted immediately, his lateral skates expelling a shower of ice onto Mark.

"Whatter you doing?" The Sporty kid asked, leaning over Mark, who was now covering his eyes in fright. When Mark didn't answer, the kid lightly kicked Mark's skate. "Hey! Whatter you doing?" He yelled louder, thinking Mark didn't hear him the first time.

"Skating!" Mark confessed, bringing his feet closer to his body—anything that would keep him as far away from the bully as possible.

"That's not skating! You were just dragging yourself!" The boy exclaimed, pointing at the wall. "Can't you skate for real?"

Mark took his hands away from his face and looked up at the boy who was interrogating him. He had wavy, brown hair in a feathery yet fashionable mullet, and bright green eyes that stood out in contrast to his flushed cheeks. Mark slowly shook his head, causing his glasses to slide down his slick nose.

"No… Not really. I don't really like skating." Mark mumbled quietly, pushing up his glasses as he sat up.

"Why are you playing hockey if you can't skate?" The Sporty boy fisted a handful of Mark's jersey, helping to lift him to his feet. Mark shrugged as best he could and grasped back onto the wall for dear life.

"My dad wants me to. He says it's time to learn to skate because I'm _seven_ now, and Cindy's been skating since _she_ was seven!" Mark whined, pulling along the wall.

The boy watched him struggle for a few seconds before gliding up next to him.

"Well, you're doing it wrong." Mark stopped where he was and looked over at the boy, not letting go of the wall. "Here, look." With that, the boy cruised in front of Mark, slowly pushing his skates against the ice.

"See? It's easy!" The boy easily glided around Mark, even going backwards at one point. Mark looked over at him with wide eyes as the boy skated back over to him. "Now you try."

Mark shook his head furiously, too scared to let go.

"Come on! It's easy! Just let go! Look!" He stood next to Mark. "First, your feet are wrong. You don't want them straight out in front of you like you're walking. When you skate, you want your feet to look like a pizza slice. You know what I mean?" The boy explained how he was taught. Mark shook his head.

"Look. See my feet?" Mark looked down. "They kind of look like a V, or a pizza slice? That's what you do."

Slowly, Mark put his feet into a V shape.

"Now, just… Skate. Like, kind of push off. You know?" The boy pushed off, showing Mark what to do. Mark stood there a minute, not moving.

"What if I fall?" Mark called out, tears forming in his eyes again.

"Then you stink at skating. Here," The boy skated so he was in front of Mark. "I'll stand here, and you can skate to me. If you fall, I'll catch you." The boy leaned over, looking more like a hockey goalie than a catcher. "Ready?" He called, holding his arms out. Mark shook his head, but slowly let go of the wall.

After a moment of rebalancing himself, Mark carefully pushed off with one skate, his arms outstretched beside him, and smoothly glided towards the boy. Mark smiled, becoming more confident, and pushed off with the other foot.

"Look! I'm doing it! I'm ska – !" Mark tripped, his skate catching the groove where the boy had stopped in front of him, and tumbled onto the rough ice. The boy skated forward in an attempt to catch Mark, but fell atop him, causing Mark to smash his chin hard on the ice. Mark's cries echoed throughout the arena.

* * *

"I'm Roger, by the way." The boy said shyly, handing Mark a bag of ice. Mark took it and carefully put it against his chin, which was freshly stitched and swollen. He just looked at Roger.

"Mark, what do you say to Roger?" Mark's dad patted his back as he stood beside Mark's gurney. They were in a curtained-off room at the hospital. Mark just kept on looking at Roger, his eyes puffy from crying.

Roger bit his lip and twirled a finger in his hair. "You know, Mark, you're gonna have a real cool scar from that. That's pretty neat!"

"Mr. Cohen, we need you to fill out some paper work real quick." A nurse popped her head into the curtain, breaking the awkward moment.

"Sure. I'll be right back, boys. Don't. Go. Anywhere. Okay?" Mr. Cohen instructed and left, following the nurse.

After a few moments of silence and awkward staring, Roger sighed.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know you were going to fall and get stitches. I just wanted to help you skate better." Roger's bottom lip quivered as he started to tear up. "Don't be mad at me!" He furiously dug his palms into his eyes, wiping his tears away.

"I'm not mad. It just… Hurts. A lot." Mark muttered. He didn't want to make the other boy cry – after all, he _was_ just trying to help him.

"But it's my fault!" Roger sniffled, his green eyes looking up into Mark's blue eyes. Mark shrugged and took the ice off, slightly prodding at the small, black string that held his chin together.

"Hey! The doctor said no touching! No touching!" Roger cried, pulling Mark's hand away from his face.

"What does it look like?" Mark said curiously, leaning down jutting his chin out so Roger could see the stitches better.

Roger stood on his tip toes and closely examined his teammate's chin.

"Eww! Gross! It's so cool!" He yelled, causing Mark to laugh.

The two boys stood there laughing while Mark grossed out Roger with his chin.

"You boys ready? We're all good to leave." Mr. Cohen reappeared, grabbing Mark and Roger's skates from the ground.

As they left the hospital, Roger jumped excitedly around Mark. "You just wait until next week at practice! I'll show you how to skate _backwards_!"

Mark shuddered and climbed into the back seat of his dad's minivan. He had a feeling this would only be the beginning of watching Roger do something so unbelievable and life-risking.


End file.
